


Run Riot

by bearprince



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, PWP without Porn, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, one very hormonal angel, vs one very annoying demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearprince/pseuds/bearprince
Summary: Crowley had not warned him about the side effects of making an effort, or, if Aziraphale was feeling fair (and he often wasn't), had forgotten in the millennia since. All Aziraphale had wanted a nice soak in a hot spring without raising questions, but his newly minted gonads were causing a hormonal riot.





	Run Riot

**Author's Note:**

> This idea really ran away with me, huh. I was going to incorporate this idea of hormonal backlash of making an effort into my other, teen-friendly fic but it got too silly too fast, and then later, far too smutty. So, I wrote this one-shot. My condolences/sympathies to the people who have gone through puberty as adults when they start hormone therapy.

Crowley had not warned him about the side effects of making an effort, or, if Aziraphale was feeling fair (and he often wasn't), had forgotten in the millennia since. All Aziraphale had wanted a nice soak in a hot spring without raising questions, but his newly minted gonads were causing a hormonal riot.

Normally, Aziraphale quashed emotions like repression was his hobby. Crowley, by nature, was an artisan in pushing buttons. In current circumstances, Crowley was a matador, and Aziraphale constantly saw red. Because Aziraphale still had a well of dignity that could quench a small country's thirst, he would never tell Crowley he was essentially going through puberty at age five millennia and some change. This dynamic was causing fallout that made Aziraphale idiotically angsty. He had never wanted to throw things so badly in his life. Given pencils, his ceiling would have been a field of graphite.

He considered getting rid of the effort, but then he might have to deal with this at some other point, so he stubbornly decided to grin and bear it. Or, at least, purse his lips moodily and bear it.

There was also a separate issue.

See, Crowley was very handsome. Aziraphale had had the thought a few times (if he was feeling fair, which again he often wasn’t, quite a few times) in the past, chalking it up to his general demonic nature. But now he was handsome in a much more personal way that would have had Aziraphale crowding him against a wall given a touch less self-control. Heart-achingly beautiful, really, the lean lines of his body, his lips almost permanently in a sneer, his flawless russet-brown skin. Head to toe, sole of his boots to his wispy dark hair. Aziraphale had many intrusive thoughts about how soft his hair would be with his fingers wrapped in it, how nice his own deep umber fingers would look against Crowley’s when he held his hand up over his head.

How long would puberty last, he wondered, because he desperately hoped it would be over soon. He thought his propensity for angelic repression would have been enough to throw a wet blanket on this flame, but try throwing a blanket on a rhinoceros. Siphoning the hormones off like he did with alcohol was tricky because the testosterone and adrenaline was constant. Managing the flood took a considerable amount of time, attention, and slinking off by himself like a horny tomcat. It was horrifically inconvenient to be in this state, not to mention how many times he had to practically shove Crowley out the door to be alone. 

This time, Aziraphale had managed to steer him almost all the way out of the door, a Herculean effort when they were both so sloshed. But then, Crowley wouldn't move. For being thin, he could make himself unnaturally heavy.

"Hold up, angel. What–" he said, finger on Aziraphale's chest again, "is this about?" He looked angry. Oh, Aziraphale really hoped he wouldn't be.

"Nothing, my dear, it's just awfully late and I know you need sleep–"

"Gobshite! Neither of us need sleep."

"Language!"

"For Chrissakes–"

"May you be forgiven," Aziraphale replied automatically, which only made Crowley put his hands over his eyes like he could wipe away whatever he frustration was feeling. It'd be easier, if things worked that way.

"I don't wanna leave! S'cold. Cellar is cold." Crowley had a basement apartment before those were even a thing. "'Sides, I'm pissed drunk." His limbs were all loose with it, and he was swaying slightly. 

Seeing him framed in moonlight was only making Aziraphale more resolute in his desire to shove him out into the cold, consequences be damned, but the compassionate part of him asleep under the mass of hormones stirred. His hearth was still burning, making Aziraphale's back pleasantly warm in contrast to the bitter cold coming in from outside making his face hurt. If only his current dwelling wasn't a one-room affair, then this wouldn't be an issue. He swallowed, unsure of what to do, then moved to the side and begrudgingly held out his arm to welcome Crowley back in. Just one night. He could deal with this for one night.

Crowley scowled at him with his arms wrapped around himself but came in anyway and immediately flopped out on the bed in odd angles. Unfair, it was so unfair how seeing him like that made Aziraphale practically thrum with desire.

"Why'r'you staring at me?" Crowley said, eyes half-lidded. Aziraphale shook his head tightly. Crowley only grinned. "You need s'more furniture."

Aziraphale sighed and thudded into his armchair. "Not a problem for one person, actually."

"But'm here all the tiiime."

"I've noticed," he said, short.

"I've noticed you've noticed." Crowley licked his teeth, eyes flashing. Aziraphale's hands fisted into his trousers. He was a hair's breadth from launching him back out in the cold, but then Crowley curled up with his bearskin and Aziraphale suddenly couldn't think about anything but slipping under it with him. He resolutely straightened up in his chair.

"Go to bed, Crowley."

"M'trying!" he said, half muffled into the pillow. "Shuddup, angel."

“And sober up! I am not dealing with you hungover.”

“Mmmf!” Crowley exclaimed, but Aziraphale heard the bottles refill anyway. Within minutes, Crowley was fast asleep. Aziraphale added his own spirits back to the bottles. He made a mental note to throw them away; there was technically nothing wrong with drinking it again, but the thought made Aziraphale nauseated. A version of spitting and then never wanting to drink the spit again.

If he kept on that track of disgusting thoughts, maybe one night would be simpler, but seeing Crowley all lank and soft in his slumber was propelling him onto a separate track.

Aziraphale thought in a string of curses that he would never say out loud.

He was hard. Achingly so in his breeches, which was the impetus for pushing Crowley out in the first place. He at least had to wear something more forgiving. He snapped, not at all wanting to undress, and a nightshirt materialized instead. That felt better, but also now he could see himself pushing up the fabric, which was distracting. He drew the shirt around his knees so it made a wide tent away from him, and he closed the curtains. The room became pitch dark. But now it felt eerie, which was worse, and he tapped his foot impatiently. He opened the curtain again, and Crowley was lit up by moonlight again. Aziraphale flared his nostrils. A trap of his own devising, then.

Images flashed through his mind unbidden. Crowley squirming beneath him, Crowley writhing on top of him, Crowley panting and arching against his sheets, enraptured. In life, he never did stop moving, and he moved like he was making love to the air. Maybe he could take care of himself outside? But then, it was still a frigid January night, and if the wind had hurt his _face_... He winced and shook that thought aside.

Crosswords and electricity had unfortunately not been invented yet, but he made the effort to walk over to his desk. He lit a candle to read something fantastically dull and immediately heard a litany of grumbly, drowsy complaints. It was Aziraphale’s turn to press his hands against his eyes like he could will away frustration. He snuffed the candle out.

Aziraphale shivered. A thin nightshirt wasn’t really doing much, and being near the walls–as far away from Crowley as possible–had the disadvantage of being dreadfully cold. He got a heavy wool blanket from his linen closet and floomphed back into his overstuffed armchair, unfurling the blanket over himself.

Well. Wasn’t that interesting, how he had protection from wandering eyes if he was careful. He closed his eyes, letting warmth seep back into him. Gently, trying not to rustle, he pushed his hand down on his cock and had to bite back a gasp. He’d stretched out his need for this, even before allowing Crowley back inside, and this insistent part of himself had not been happy. He traced his cock through his nightshirt from root to tip before pressing his palm down harder. This time his breath hitched. He opened one eye, paranoid, but Crowley was still fast asleep. Aziraphale thought, maybe… but no, he couldn’t actually watch Crowley while he was doing this. That was far too perverse. So his eyes slid shut again as he felt himself up firmly through the fabric.

He was far past the point of masturbation being sinful. It did not matter; it was happening anyway. It was only practical, he reasoned. He felt a nudge of guilt at the purported heavenly doctrine that made humans feel guilty for their natural state, because when he had the urge himself it was wholly inescapable and all-consuming. He sighed, letting his hand wander further, giving his balls a gentle squeeze before he went back up to his shaft and tugged. It wasn’t enough through the nightshirt. As quietly as possible, he shifted around so he could bring the hem of the nightshirt up around his middle. The sensation of the scratchy wool against his flesh when he was already sensitive and wanting made him shiver and itch and twist away. To protect himself, he drew his hand up, and touching his bare cock made his toes curl into the floor.

Thinking, that he would let himself do. He was always thinking. Usually it was an incessant river of worry between his ears. Now, his mind was focused on sensation, on need, on desire. The other night, Crowley had sucked some honey off of his own fingers after stealing a bite one of Aziraphale’s favorite sticky cakes, and Aziraphale had dropped his jaw in utter dismay. He imagined Crowley on his knees before the armchair, head between his legs, tasting him curiously before taking hold of him and bobbing his head. His slick tongue would feel so good, so hot, his breath trapped against his skin–

Aziraphale’s fist tightened as he moved back up to the head of his cock, and then he fucked into his fist with a heavy sigh. He tried desperately not to rock, but his hips were moving of their own accord. His breathing was shaky as he stopped to bat around for some lotion tucked into the side of the armchair. The sheer number of hidden places he had for little corked bottles of lubricants was mortifying.

The soft pop of the cork as he opened the bottle made him jumpy. He looked over to Crowley again. He was flat on his back now, blanket half over himself as he snored and twitched in his sleep. The swell of fondness making his heart pump faster wasn’t new and didn’t arrive with this new body. Aziraphale had been repressing that for quite some time, thank you. The nag of affection faded into nothing as soon as he went back to his previous ministrations and spread the lotion on his cock.

He groaned, then shoved his fist in his stupid mouth. His eyes screwed shut as he picked up the pace, ears burning when his hand made wet noises from bucking up too hard. He was thinking again about Crowley, with lotion spread between his thighs, sliding against them until his cock pressed against Crowley’s balls under his body. Hot–so, so hot, Crowley trembling beneath him and moaning as Aziraphale brought his hand up to relieve him–

It was enough to do Aziraphale in. He came hard, whimpering against the skin of his fist, shaking like a leaf as wrung himself out. He cleaned up miraculously and sagged, satisfied, in his armchair, pulse thundering in his temples and neck before his body finally, finally quelled. 

He basked for a moment before looking at the state of things. The blanket was rumpled in his lap, just barely concealing him now. Good Lord. He shoved his nightshirt back down and arranged everything as if this had never happened. He allowed himself one last look at Crowley before slipping into unconsciousness, peaceful as an angel could be.


End file.
